Counterpoint
by Petronia
Summary: Crawford x Schuldig scenes from within "The Berchtesgaden Debriefing's timeline. I suspect these won't make it into the fic proper, as they do nothing to advance the plot, so I'm posting them as a series of vignettes.
1. Room Service

**Room Service**

For a moment as he woke, he thought it was still raining.

Crawford lay quietly, listening to the hiss of the shower running in the bathroom, his senses returning to him one by one. Not rain, true, but something about the quality of the light filtering through the drawn curtains spoke of early morning fog. Inestimable, this country... he had flung out an arm under the coverlet prior to waking, and the rumpled linen beside him was still pleasantly warm. Schuldich's recent presence hung in the air, boy-scent with that odd, spicy-sweet undertone. Crawford closed his eyes again, and not-sight welled up with groundspring ease. The next ten minutes might as well have been recent memory. He moved his lips soundlessly, trying out this phrase or another as response, drifting from future to future.

He found that he didn't want to get up.

The shower shut off with a gurgle-clank of serviceable old piping. Crawford sighed, sat up to retrieve his glasses and reached for the black telephone on the same bedside stand. He dialed for an outside line, and then a number from memory; after a brief exchange he wrote down three other numbers on the back of a hotel-issue envelope. Then he hung up and waited.

The bathroom door opened a few moments later, and Schuldich slipped out in a cloud of steam. He was dressed already, in the same black shirt and jeans – Crawford made a mental note that the boy needed supplementary clothing. He blinked to see Crawford awake, though his expression did not otherwise change.

"Early for you," Crawford said.

"I'm going out." Schuldich, indeed, held himself with a peculiar tension, as if impatient to take flight.

"I have to handle a few transactions in person at the office."

"Yeah, so?"

"House rules. You don't leave the suite unless I am physically accompanying you, or I say it's a mission and give specific instructions. In my absence, you stay in." He watched the shuttered green of Schuldich's eyes flash into rage-filled focus.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do," Schuldich hissed. Crawford's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move from the bed. That way lay... he wanted to get the contest of wills over with.

"I'm not telling you what to do," he said quietly. "I'm setting down the rules. So you know where you stand. If you break the rules, there will be consequences."

Schuldich's lip curled, and he took a step forward. Crawford was ready for the challenge this time, although it was not so much the same upfront attack as a steady menacing pressure. He kept the surface of his mind as unyielding and cold as black ice, let it seep into his eyes. An oddly lost expression flickered over Schuldich's face before it became defiance, and he glanced away.

"I have to go out," he said finally. The unnamed tension in his body had ratcheted tighter still. Even the set of his shoulders was like an over-wound spring. Crawford saw him clench his left hand rapidly, several times in succession, before he forced himself to relax; it reminded him of the previous night.

"You could call room service," he said.

Schuldich gave a sharp laugh, glancing up in contemptuous surprise – and paused. Crawford was holding out the envelope, blue ballpoint digits facing up and clear.

"Take it," he said, and Schuldich moved automatically. Then, "the first number is the one you use; the second one is a backup measure. They change lines every few weeks, keep yourself updated. The last number is the account you charge it to. The pin is the birth date on your passport. They know the suite number already. Don't overestimate, what they supply is purer than street – and keep it out of my sight." He paused. Schuldich was still staring down at the envelope in his hand. "Do you understand?"

"I thought you said this wasn't your forte," Schuldich said softly.

"I—" And then the boy was on him, straddling his lap for leverage and bright hair veiling his range of vision. He tasted wholesome for once, like mint tooth powder.

"Transactions," Schuldich whispered. "Can they wait?"

He was very warm. Crawford shivered a little and reached up to hook his hands in the top of Schuldich's jeans. He didn't think the fog had let up.

"Perhaps," he said.

* * *

_— Montreal, June 2001 _


	2. Red and White

**Red and White**

_Tanabata '03 Drabble Challenge: luxetumbra_

* * *

The sprinkling of white powder shows starkly against the mahogany of the coffee table. Crawford nudges the suite door closed and frowns.

_Told him to keep it out of sight._

He approaches, spotting an empty saucer – mug rings – crumpled aluminum foil.

He didn't foresee the way the boy is curled on his side on the sofa, unmoving, arms wrapped about himself. Red hair obscures his face.

Crawford is two steps away before he notices the bloody smudges on wrist and fingers, and logic literally deserts him. He reaches over the table and clutches Schuldich by the shoulders, shaking him hard.

"Schuldich...!"

"...What?"

A warm hand clasps his wrist. Schuldich brushes his hair away with the other, and suddenly Crawford is staring into sleepy feline-green eyes. He shuts down the relief immediately – lets go of him and straightens – knowing Schuldich caught the emotion. He doesn't smile, though, only the green eyes widen a little.

"Brad," he says.

"We're leaving in half an hour." Crawford's lips tighten, and he makes for the bedroom.

"Wait," Schuldich says vaguely. He leans over the arm of the sofa and begins to pick up objects from an obscured patch of floor, before Crawford can step on them: an empty teacup, a half-eaten plate of profiteroles, a large bowl that looks to have contained ice cream and chocolate syrup. Another bowl, of ripe cherries; a third of caster sugar. Schuldich snags one of the red-black fruits, dips it in the sugar and bites into it messily. Licks the sticky crimson juice from his fingertips. Only then does he glance up and pause. "Well, _what?_"

"I won't be responsible for you on that much sugar," Crawford hears himself say. Schuldich's face hardens momentarily with hostility, but when Crawford leans down to kiss him his mouth still tastes sweet.

* * *

_— Montreal, July 2003_


End file.
